


psychological accident

by kyrilu



Series: just another fallow field [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have a little disorganized within us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	psychological accident

**Author's Note:**

> This week was living hell for me and I just needed to write a straightforward Matthew/Will fic. :)

They are sitting by the sea holding hands, the noises from the boatyard clattering across the air. Will has just got off work, and Matthew’s waiting for him. They find a wooden bench to sit down, Matthew’s legs swinging back and forth with that usual, excitable energy of his.

It’s nice. Matthew never minds the engine grease on Will’s hands, just takes his wrist and puts their hands together. They don’t talk, for a minute: they’re not a vocal pair, when it comes down to it.

Although Will sometimes imagines that if they ever met in a different universe, a different time, they would talk more. He has strange dreams. What if Will Graham - always the new boy at school, always the stranger - had moved into Baltimore with his father? He would be alone, and he’d find places to hide, and maybe he’d stumble upon Matthew Brown researching his own gruesome interests in a dusty library somewhere. Matthew would fall in love with him first, on seeing him, because he always does. They would be young: Matthew and Will slipping quietly into each other’s apartments at the dead of the night, going unnoticed by their respective parent; Matthew and Will taking turns reading newspapers under the bedcovers, shining a flashlight, emerging afterwards with black inked fingers; Matthew and Will practicing fire-building, Matthew laughingly leaning down to put his mouth against a used darkened match in Will’s hand, as if he’s a priest offering communion, Matthew is not and never will be afraid of getting burned—

It isn’t real. There is no youth here.

Will anchors his mind back at the present, at the bench by the ocean.

Matthew says, “Once, I profiled myself when I was bored. I’m not as good as you, of course, but it was interesting.”

Will’s eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t it like it when Matthew brings up the things he’d like to pretend comes from a past and different life. But these are the things they can never separate themselves from. A common origin, a starting point, a shared similarity: murder, always murder, as certain as the fact that Matthew will always fall in love with him first.

Eventually, Will replies to Matthew. Huffs, sets his head back into the hard wood of the bench, and decides to quietly indulge him. “Organized,” he proposes.

Matthew cracks a grin. “That’s almost flattering. I decided I was mixed.”

Will is doing his best not to look at Matthew’s face. He makes a noise of acknowledgement, and then says, “Andrew Sykes was an act of mimicry, Matt. It was thoroughly planned. Your weapons, the scene, everything. Nearly emotionless, besides the – _intent._ ”

“You.” Matthew says it softly.

They don’t count Matthew’s attempt on Hannibal Lecter.

“Yes,” Will says. “Even if you did pose him. As for burning him, I know you like fires, but that wasn’t on your mind. I was.” He shrugs, acquiesces. “You might be right, though. The organized/disorganized system has been recognized as fairly flawed. We all have a little disorganized within us.”

His voice sounds distant. Detached. He is attempting to think about this without really thinking about it. This is a moment where he tries to forget about his bare hands on Randall Tier’s throat. Mixed. Will Graham is probably mixed, with rage rising in his blood like a tide and the cautiousness instilled by his own knowledge and empathy. Hannibal Lecter was wrong about him in so many ways, but he was also right.

Matthew interrupts Will’s thoughts. “Which is why I looked into the subgroups. Hedonistic, maybe – ‘thrill kill.’ Power/control. Not sure.”

That’s more of Hannibal Lecter’s profile. Will ponders over _mission-oriented,_ because of Matthew’s crusading nature. For Will Graham. For the adoption and absorption of power. Right now, his mission is still Will, but it’s cooler, calmer. Will wonders if he should feel guilty about this – in some ways, this is exploitation in its simplest form. _We’re just alike_.

He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He brushes hair from his forehead, squeezes Matthew’s hand. “This is grim,” he says lightly, the frown he’s wearing becoming more pronounced. “Matt.”

“I know.” Matthew squeezes Will’s hand back, and turns his head so that they finally manage eye contact. “I was…thinking.”

Wry, Will says, “You always are.”

“What would it have been like, do you think?” Matthew asks. “If I didn’t ‘burnout,’ so to speak. If I made you kill by my side?”

His eyes are serious. Sad. Crazy, almost, Will thinks, but takes back the thought. _He’s too careful to be crazy_ , as Will had once told Freddie Lounds, a long time ago. Ultimately, Will is probably right: organized.

“You wouldn’t have to make me,” Will says. He feels his head drop to rest on Matthew’s shoulders.

Matthew says – in a tone that Will recognizes as quotation, but he doesn’t know the source – “’I’ve met someone at last with a will as strong as my own.’” It is something glorified, Will thinks. Something distorted and romanticized. Oh, does Matthew love his fires.

Will just laughs, softly. “’Strong,’ Matthew?”

He is referring to himself, not to Matthew, who is strong and stubborn and determined in a million ways beyond Will’s imagination. He shuts his eyes before he can hear Matthew’s gentle contradiction, and listens to the familiar sound of a boat motor guttering up: about to set sail for the sea.


End file.
